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I’ve flipped this apartment upside down. They aren’t here, which only leaves one place for them to be. The journals must be in the storage space in the basement. I went down there once, and it was like a pack rat’s paradise. But I want those journals. She scribbled something in them every day, they must hold some answers to what went down. Fuck it, I’m calling Micky.
* * *
“So, I brought some snacks and two bottles of wine. You know, better to be safe than sober.”
“Ever the Girl Guide...”
“What’s a Girl Guide?”
“Canada Girl Scouts.”
She ignores my reply as she sets the bag on the countertop. When she faces me again, her eyebrows shoot up and she digs her hands into her hair.
“God! I still can’t believe this! You were right the whole time! If you hadn’t followed your gut—I mean, thank God you didn’t listen to me! This is the craziest story ever. You’re probably famous.”
“Hoo-ray,” I deadpan, swinging my finger in a circle. This is not the kind of famous anybody wants to be.
“Tell me again why you won’t just email them?”
“I feel like I’d be showing my hand. Like it was me crawling back to them. If I can find them before they find me, I can control the situation more. I know, it’s stupid, but I just couldn’t handle more disappointment.”
“If you did email, what would you write?”
“Sup, fam. It’s ya girl, Anastasia,” I say, exaggerating my voice.
I find two clean glasses and pour the wine. Generously.
“Oh, she’s a party girl,” Micky says, observing the volume in the wineglass. “Okay. So, these journals...”
“I gotta find ’em. They must be in this building somewhere, and they aren’t in the apartment. That only leaves basement storage. Julianne was always writing in them. There’s got to be at least a dozen or so. I’ve turned this apartment upside down and can’t find anything. But I don’t want to dig through the storage space on my own.”
“Julianne, huh?” She picked up on me not calling her mom.
“Yeah. Julianne feels more appropriate.”
“Hell yeah.” She smiles and clinks her glass to mine. “Well, come on, Nancy Drew, where’s the flashlight?”
* * *
When I push open the heavy metal door to the basement, it smells of old cardboard and damp concrete. Flickering fluorescent lights illuminate the rows and rows of what appear to be eight-foot cubes made up of 2x4s and chicken wire. It’s fucking creepy down here.
Our footsteps echo as we walk through the aisles.
“... 23... 24... 25... 26. Here we are.”
It’s packed full, the spindly wire walls are practically bursting. I knew it was bad, but this is some next-level shit.
Micky blows out a surprised whistle. “So, when were you going to tell me that Julianne was single-handedly keeping The Shopping Channel alive?”
“Right? I had no idea it had gotten this out of control.”
“It’s okay. That’s why I’m here. You ready for this?”
I take another gulp of my wine—thankful I brought it with me—and set it down outside the chicken wire door marked with a big 26 above it. I put my key into the flimsy lock and drag the door open with a loud screech, careful not to disturb the pile of haphazardly stacked boxes on the other side.
“Lovely,” I comment as I take in how big of a job this is.
“What should I be looking for?”
